


ghost, guardian, gone

by bicroft



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bicroft/pseuds/bicroft
Summary: Zhenya has a job to do.





	ghost, guardian, gone

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "cold war spies."

 Zhenya has a job to do.

It should have been a simple one, too; he’d killed dozens of men over the years with no hesitation whatsoever. Hesitation had been bred out of him- _feeling_ had been bred out of him, for the most part. The KGB didn’t have room for warmth.

And yet, when he looked at Crosby’s smiling face, beaming at him across the darkened bar, Zhenya felt like he was standing in the sun. Not the Russian sun, either; the sun on a beach, somewhere in Western Europe, or Southern America, warmed from the inside out and threatening to melt.

Zhenya had always been weak for a little bit of sunshine.

He strode across the bar, which was a part of his job. He smiled at Crosby, bought him a drink, which was part of his job. He leaned a little too close, laughed with a little bit too much sincerity, and this _wasn’t_ part of his job, really, but he could just… omit it from the reports, later. No one had to know he was stealing warmth, so long as he did what he was supposed to. For all the KGB wanted him to act otherwise, Zhenya was still _human._

He got a little tipsy- not part of the job at all, _forbidden_ on the job, actually. He tucked stray curl behind Crosby’s ear, definitely not allowed- and, when he finally did get him outside, to the darkened alley behind the hidden bar, Zhenya kissed him, instead of finishing the damn job. “I really shouldn’t be doing this in public,” Crosby said, panting into Zhenya’s ear as he pressed him back against the wall of the alley and started kissing a line down his neck.

“I’m shouldn’t be doing this at all,” Zhenya mumbled back, and Crosby laughed, threading his fingers through Zhenya’s hair and looking down at him.

“Me too, probably,” he said. “But- if we’re gonna do it anyway, we might as well do it somewhere more comfortable.”

Zhenya let Crosby push him back, and _really_ , he’d had his fun now, so he should be able to make himself reach for the gun tucked into the back of his pants, and _finish the fucking job_. He didn’t, though. Instead, he let Crosby take his hand and lead him to his car, and let himself relax into the seats and rest his hand on Crosby’s upper thigh as they drove through the night. He let Crosby lead him inside when they got to his house, fumbling with his keys and shushing Zhenya as he laughed at him, and pressed against his back.

“The old lady next door is a light sleeper, and a busybody, so _hush_ ,” he mumbled as he finally got the key into the lock, and Zhenya rolled his eyes as he nudged him inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

“I’m give her something to be busy about,” he said, and Crosby _giggled_ when he leaned in to kiss him, and Zhenya felt something in his heart light up.

(He wasn’t supposed to have a heart. This was a _problem_.)

They made it to Crosby’s bedroom and left a trail of clothes behind them, and Zhenya tried leaving the part of his mind screaming at him that this _wasn’t how this was supposed to go_ behind too. He managed to keep Crosby’s hands away from his gun when they when he started groping Zhenya’s ass by pure coincidence, and he was definitely being an idiot when he left the damn thing in his pants, tossed in a corner where he had no chance of grabbing it in time if he needed it.

“What am I calling you?” Crosby asked when they could keep their mouths off of each other for a half second, thought Zhenya kept working his way downward.

Zhenya had a million pseudonyms to give. Vladimir, Aton, Nikolai; he could have said _any_ Russian name, probably, and it wouldn’t have mattered, because in the morning, he’d be gone, and Crosby would be dead.

“Zhenya,” is what came out, though, mumbled into the dip of Crosby’s hip. Not even _Evgeni_ \- what kind of fucking fool was he?

“Zhenya,” Crosby breathed out, laying back on the bed and arching up into Zhenya’s touch so beautifully he could have cried. It sounded distinctly foreign on his tongue, but, Zhenya had a brief thought about how he could get used to hearing his name butchered, so long as Crosby kept saying it.

He wasn’t going to get the opportunity after tonight, though, so he focused instead on making Crosby say it as many times as humanly possible, and was sickly pleased when it went from being interspersed between breathy sighs to being a full-blown chant before the night was through.

“Do you have to go?” Crosby whispered when they were sweaty and panting, and Zhenya was starting to pull away.

Yes. The answer was yes- and, in a way, Crosby had to, too, and this would be a _perfect_ time to do it. Sweaty and naked and obviously just having had sex; no one would want to bring light to Crosby’s death, that way. Too much scandal for Canada’s golden son.

“Not yet,” Zhenya said, tucking Crosby closer to his chest both in response to Crosby and his duty. Not yet; a night of pretend was okay. He got so few of them, and he knew to snatch his warmth where he could get it. Crosby smiled into the dip of Zhenya’s shoulder, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he mumbled, relaxing into Zhenya’s arms. He was out like a light, mumbling nonsense about what Zhenya assumed was hockey and ducks. It was endearing in a way Zhenya couldn’t handle, but he also didn’t want to move lest it wake Crosby up, so Zhenya was forced to just lay there and hold him, and think about all the mistakes he’d made that took him to this point. He was going to _heavily_ edit his mission report, at this point, but he figured as long as he did what he was sent here to do, he’d be fine. A few questions, but nothing to tarnish his sterling reputation.

Now, if only he could make himself actually get up and do it.

Ten minutes passed, then thirty. Then an hour, and then two, and then three, and then- and then, somewhere in there, Zhenya fell asleep and didn’t wake up again until there was sunlight peeking through the cracks in Crosby’s bedroom curtains. Crosby was still sleeping, now drooling slightly instead of talking, and Zhenya untangled their limbs as gently as he could and stood, suppressing his distress. He hadn’t slept like that in _years_ , and surely hadn’t slept like that in proximity to another person- a _stranger,_ practically, to boot.

He was almost entirely dressed by the time he heard shifting from the bed, and his hand froze where he had just been tucking his gun back into this waistband. “You leaving?” Crosby mumbled, eyes barely open. He had the worst case of bed head Zhenya had ever seen, and the sunlight looked almost like it spotlighting him as he stretched lazily.

Now. He could do it now- one bullet, Zhenya knew well enough how to get these jobs done quick and quiet. It wasn’t even like he’d have to dive for his gun; this may as well have been the cleanest job Zhenya had ever been given, sitting on a golden platter of sunlight, if only he could reach out and take it.

His hand moved away from his gun, and a soft smile crossed his face. “Not leave,” he said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and reaching out, caressing Crosby’s face like he was handling the most precious thing in the world. “Just dress. Not like just lay in bed, feel like… waste of time.”

“You got anywhere to be?” Crosby hummed, leaning into his touch, unaware that it’d only take a minute for Zhenya to break that blind trust and end his life.

“No,” Zhenya said. “Nowhere to go. Not for few days.”

“Then stay,” Crosby said, and he made it sound so alluring and so _simple,_ that Zhenya hummed his ascension, and laid back down. For Crosby, it _was_ simple. Zhenya was just a man, maybe just another man in a string of men, and so long as he was quiet about it, asking someone to stay wasn’t the world altering event that it was for Zhenya.

“Stay today,” he said, clearing his throat soon after, trying to blame how raw it sounded on lingering sleep.

“Unless you’ve got any pressing reservations,” Crosby said, sounding a little more careful now, eyes open and darting. He was rubbing the edge of his sheets with such intensity, Zhenya thought they might fray under his hands. “You can… stay the whole time.”

 _This_ was a surprise. Zhenya worked to keep his face soft and neutral. Even if Crosby had no idea how much trouble he could get into if rumors started to spread, asking a stranger- any stranger, but especially a foreign stranger, a stranger quite clearly from an enemy nation to that you were staying in, in times like these- to stay in your house for an unspecified number of days was more than a little dangerous, and Zhenya knew full well that Crosby was no fool. He knew full well the danger his fame put him in, and he either didn’t care (wrong; Zhenya could see in his face that he cared. He knew full well what he was doing), or, had seen something in Zhenya that had made him push his cares aside. (Zhenya had no clue what _that_ could have been; maybe he was just that good at sex? Not like he’d had that much experience to gather than information from.)

Zhenya should say no. Even on the off-chance Crosby _was_ just a fool, Zhenya wasn’t. He knew full well what this kind of trouble he could get into if he was found out; his face plastered on tabloids was probably the worst kind of death sentence he could imagine, especially with his name attached to the seduction of a target. He had his out, now, too; complete the mission, and leave, and he was as anonymous as he’d ever been.

“If you’re want me to, I’m stay,” he said instead, smiling soft as before. Crosby’s face lit up like a child’s on their birthday. Maybe he was a fool, then- but, if he was, so was Zhenya.

“I do want,” Crosby said, leaning up to kiss Zhenya. It made Zhenya’s heart flutter, and settled the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Four days; he still had four days before he was supposed to be back in Moscow. He had just been going to use those four days to lay low, but missions always changed. He could adapt.

“You promise me breakfast,” he said when they pulled away, and Crosby laughed, bright and filling Zhenya’s chest with more stolen warmth.

“I _did_ promise,” he said, rolling over and to his feet. He stretched, and Zhenya couldn’t stop himself from staring at the way the sunlight _still_ seemed to be haloing Crosby as he moved through the room. He looked otherworldly, like an angel, or some kind of Greek god, stupid as that sounded in his head.

“You not going to get dressed?” Zhenya said, eyebrows shooting to his hairline.

Crosby smiled at him over his shoulder. “It’d be kinda pointless,” he said. “I’ve got other plans for after breakfast, since you’re sticking around.”

Despite it all, Zhenya grinned. “We see how well those plans go.”

* * *

 

It felt _wrong_ , lying in bed with the sun so far up in the sky, but Zhenya was committing worse sins than sloth today, so he figured he could let that particular detail slide.

“So,” Crosby murmured, scooting back up the bed and smiling like a child who’d just learned they got a second birthday, “Where’re you from?”

“Where you think?” Zhenya snorted. Crosby giggled again, just as he had the night before- no man of his age should be able to giggle with that much joy, not with the world how it was these days.

“Stupid question, right,” Crosby said. “Just trying to make small talk.”

“I’m not best at small talk,” Zhenya said, and then, with a little laugh, added: “I’m not good at _any_ talk.”

“You’re good at a lot of other things, though.” Crosby hummed. “Or, at least, you’ve been talented at everything you’ve shown me so far.”

“I’m think you’re just easy to impress,” Zhenya laughed- _god,_ he hadn’t laughed this much since… well. Since ever, maybe, but at the very least, not since he was a very young child.

“Oh, definitely not,” Crosby snorted, rolling to the side. Zhenya lamented the loss of his weight for a second before he told himself to shut up. He shouldn’t have had the time to lament _anything_ , but, he was a fucking _idiot_. He should be grateful he was even getting this. “I’ve been told I’m kind of an ass, and definitely not easy to please.”

“Really?” Zhenya asked, eyebrows raised in surprise, as if he didn’t already read something along that exact phrasing in Crosby’s file before taking this mission. “You’re very easy, to me.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Crosby said, rolling his eyes.

Zhenya grinned. “Going to have to wait a little bit; I’m not a teenager.” Crosby had practically set it up for him; he _had_ to.

“You know what I meant,” Crosby snorted, punching him in the shoulder. There was no force behind it though, which was good news, because Zhenya knew very well that, in _real_ fight, Crosby could deal some pretty serious damage. He maybe wasn’t the most well trained, but, Zhenya had played hockey in his youth, and he knew that learning to fight was just part of the gambit. “You didn’t answer my question, still.”

“Russia,” Zhenya said, because that wasn’t technically classified. “Small town, you’re probably never hear of it.”

“Do you live in Canada now, then?” Crosby asked, turning back towards him and scooting closer.

“No,” Zhenya said. “Here for… work.”

“What do you do?” Crosby asked, and he was inching closer to Zhenya with every question. It was distracting, and it _shouldn’t have been_ , which only made Zhenya feel more out of sorts.

“Business things,” Zhenya said with a vague hand motion. “Is hard to explain, I’m not have English for it.”

“So, you’re here for business,” Crosby said- _purred_ , almost, curling back in towards Zhenya. They were sharing air now, and that didn’t bother Zhenya nearly as much as it should. “But, you’re planning on spending the rest of your _business_ trip in a stranger’s bed?”

“Hardly stranger anymore,” Zhenya hummed. “And, it isn’t _important_ business.” That was the first outright lie of the whole conversation, but, Crosby didn’t seem to catch on.

“Lucky me,” Crosby said, and leaned in for a kiss. Zhenya was glad for it; it meant that he didn’t have more than a second to think about correcting him. If his mouth was occupied, he couldn’t lie.

Funny. He’d never cared about lying before.

“Lucky _me_ ,” he mumbled, and Crosby snorted.

“Lucky us,” he said. “Compromise?”

“Compromise,” Zhenya said, smiling. Something in his chest hurt; maybe he’d slept funny? Maybe Crosby was poisoning him.

(He almost laughed at that. Of _course_ Crosby was poisoning him. He wouldn’t be here right now if he wasn’t.)

They spent most of the rest of the day in bed- they weren’t even _doing_ anything, most of the time, except laying there and talking, Zhenya letting more and more of himself slip into it every second.

Crosby’s stomach made a noise sometime close to noon, and almost before he could stop himself, Zhenya was rolling out of bed.

Crosby frowned. “Where are you going?”

“You made breakfast,” Zhenya said. “So, I’m make lunch.”

“You don’t have to,” Crosby said, sitting up. “You’re the guest, so.”

“And I’m want to make lunch,” Zhenya said, already halfway to the kitchen and not looking back. He wasn’t sure what there even was for him to cook with, here, but he was sure he could manage something.

As it turned out, Crosby lived the way a television show assumed a bachelor would; there was almost nothing to cook with in his kitchen- but, Zhenya was a fucking pioneer, so he managed to pull together something decent, and not eggs.

“I’m starting to think you’re not real,” Crosby said, both of them now at least partially dressed and sitting at the table to eat. Zhenya almost froze before he went on. “I mean, you’re too good to be true.”

“Maybe I’m not true,” Zhenya said, which was a little too close to the truth, so he pushed a smile and wrapped it up in a joke. “Maybe I’m ghost.”

“Then I’m glad to be haunted.” Crosby’s smile was blinding, and Zhenya had to laugh, because if he didn’t, he might just spontaneously combust.

“Stuck with me for a long time,” he hummed.

Crosby shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said. “You seem like a good ghost to be stuck with. You’re not knocking my stuff over or dripping blood from my walls.”

A few images ran through Zhenya’s head at once, of scenes he’d seen- scenes he’s made, doing the work he was supposed to be doing here. Suddenly, he felt as if he was going to be sick. They’d never bothered him before- they’d always seemed _right_ , and necessary. Sometimes, he’d almost been _proud_ \- and, why shouldn’t he have been? He was serving his country, serving the only purpose he’d had since he was a teenager with no way out of a starving town but to draw blood for it.

“I’m not a good ghost, I don’t think,” he said, maybe a bit too serious for the tone of the conversation. “But, I’m a quiet one.”

“I like quiet,” Crosby said, reaching out and taking Zhenya’s hand over the table. He squeezed it, once, before Zhenya all but lunged over the table to kiss him.

He wasn’t a good ghost; he wasn’t a ghost at all, really. He was a reaper, if anything, an angel of death- but, he could pretend to be a guardian for a few days longer. 

* * *

Crosby’s name was Sid.

Sidney, really, and it wasn’t like Zhenya had ever _not_ known that. It was the first line of his file, the first thing he’d learned. But, it was less clear to him when he started thinking of Sid as Sid; sometime during the third day, perhaps, when they actually made it out of the house, both with wie-brimmed hats pulled low over their faces, looking not to be recognized for different reasons.

They were going to watch a movie, but Zhenya spent most of the time watching Sid out of the corner of his eye in the dim light. He looked more human here than he did bathed in sunlight, more fragile. Sid wasn’t a slight man, by any stretch of the imagination, but the press of his gun against his back was more obvious to Zhenya than it had ever been.

It was an almost idle thought, now, when they walked through an alley on the way home, no one around and Sid talking in his ear about something- the town, maybe? Zhenya had stopped doing anything but watching his lips awhile back. Either way, the thought that he could finish this all right now passed through his mind, which was probably a sign that Zhenya was beyond compromised, now. God help him when he got back to Russia- _if_ he got back to Russia.

“Are you okay?”

Zhenya blinked and came back to himself. “Fine,” he said quickly. “Just… thinking about home.”

“You’ve gotta go back soon,” Sid said, a little sad. “Are you- homesick, or?”

“Not homesick,” Zhenya said. He hadn’t had more than the most ambiguous concept of home for so long, he didn’t think it was possible for him to get homesick anymore. “Opposite, actually. I like it here.”

“It’s a good place to retire,” Sid said. “That’s what a lot of people do, around here.”

“I don’t think I’m ever retire,” Zhenya said, feeling genuinely mournful about it. It never bothered him before that his retirement plan was probably a bullet between the eyes; Sid was throwing every part of his life into imbalance. Zhenya would damn him for it, but, it was his own fault really, and there was no sense in damning himself. He was already plenty damned.

“I know that feeling,” Sid said, and Zhenya hoped to god he didn’t. “But, it’s gonna come eventually- sooner than you think. Can’t stay young forever.”

Zhenya didn’t even feel young _now_. “You right,” he said anyway.

He brushed his hand against Sid’s as they walked, hooking their fingers together for a half second, barely there. It was the closest they could get to holding hands in public, and it wasn’t nearly enough- but, even if all other good sense had left him, Zhenya still at least waited until they were back to Sid’s house to pull him closer, and then back to bed, and then down.

“Seems silly,” he said later, tracing snaking patterns down Sid’s spine, across his bare back. “Only here for a few days, and never want to leave.”

“Cole Harbour’s nice,” Sid hummed. “I’m not here most of the year, but, I grew up here. It’s home, really.”

“Feels like home,” Zhenya agreed, though he hadn’t really meant the town. He hadn’t even meant that it felt like Russia- he’s meant _Sid_ felt like home, a home he hadn’t felt since before he could clearly recall, now. He’d meant Sid, and the thought was a terrifying comfort. There was no escaping this, now; he was absolutely doomed, and absolutely a fool for letting himself be drawn in- but, at the very least, he was a fool for something a bit poetic. A younger Zhenya would have liked it: doomed for love, like the heroine of a Tolstoy novel.

“Ever think about immigrating, then?” Sid asked. He was joking, but Zhenya could feel real hope behind it.

He hummed, noncommittal. “Thinking about it now,” he said. “Maybe you can show me the wonders of Canada?”

 “I mean, it _is_ a pretty great place. There’s- _oh_.” Zhenya was absolutely delighted by the new discovery that Sid was a full body blusher as his hand slid further down. Sid looked over his shoulder, pink and amused. “You didn’t want me to talk about the national landmarks, I’m guessing?”

Zhenya nodded. “Only national landmark I need is right in front of me,” he said. “Your ass is like a crown jewel.”

Sid let out a burst of honking laughter. “So I’ve heard.”

“You gonna give me a tour?” Zhenya purred, but he was too close to laughter himself for it to be anywhere close to alluring. “Be good ambassador to your country?”

“You’re the worst.” Sid was still giggling. “The absolute _worst_ , you know that?”

Zhenya grinned as he leaned in to steal a kiss. “But, you like me anyway.”

“I do,” Sid agreed, and it sent Zhenya’s heart soaring dangerously. “I really think I do.”

“I like you, too,” Zhenya whispered when he pulled away, like it was the most precious secret he had.

Sid’s smile made his chest hurt again, so he stole another kiss, and didn’t let himself think about it.

* * *

 

On day four, they were being watched.

Zhenya should have known this was coming; he’d never taken more than two days for a mission like this before, especially not without checking in with a handler. He caught flashes; shadows outside windows, across the street. He kept the curtains closed, and, when he could, he kept Sid inside, distracting him with kisses and conversation but no matter what he did, he knew that his time was up. One way or another, he was going to have to make a move.

“You ever think about just… disappear?” Zhenya asked on day five. His voice was steady, but his hands weren’t. His hands hadn’t shaken in years.

Sid snorted, and sighed. “Only all the time,” he said. “Why?”

“I’m… I’m thinking,” Zhenya said, dropping his face to Sid’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. “Can’t… don’t want to go back to Russia, and I… I can’t stay here, so. Disappear.”

“Why can’t you stay here?” Sid sounded _disappointed_ , but Zhenya was grateful he didn’t ask about the other part of that statement. “I mean- I told you I’m not here most of the year, but…”

He trailed off, and Zhenya’s heart leapt with the implication of the rest of the sentence. “But?” He wanted to hear the words. He needed to.

Sid sighed again, turning over and dislodging Zhenya from his shoulder, looking at him. “We haven’t known each other for long,” he said. “I mean- I _feel_ like I’ve known you forever, but, I haven’t. That being said, I… I don’t want to never see you again. So, if you were… actually thinking of moving, this house is open. I… don’t think I could get away with bringing you with me to where I live during the season- I mean. When I work, because that’s in America, but. You could always stay here.”

Zhenya would kill for it to be that simple. He bit back on a distressed noise- a sob? Zhenya didn’t cry. It was probably a scream, then, but Zhenya didn’t scream. “Probably not good for me to stay here,” he said. “Complicated, why, but. Just can’t.”

“Okay.” Sid was frowning, but he looked determined, too- determined to hold something back. The aching feeling came back to Zhenya’s chest. It felt a little hollow, now, too. “That’s- I understand.”

“I want to,” Zhenya said quickly, grabbing for Sid’s hand without breaking eye contact. “I want to, because I’m- feel. Feel way. But, can’t.”

“I _understand_ , Zhenya,” Sid said, voice breaking a little. He was squeezing Zhenya’s hand so tightly he might break it. “I do.”

They were silent for a long moment before Zhenya spoke, pulling his hands away. “I’m leave, tomorrow morning,” he said.

Sid was silent, but nodded, still looking determined. “That’s- yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Not forever,” Zhenya said- _promised_. He didn’t make promises, hated them, but, he couldn’t stop himself this time. “Promise, not forever.”

“Next summer, maybe,” Sid said, pushing a smile.

“Next summer.” Zhenya nodded, leaning in so that their foreheads were touching. “Next summer, see you again.”

“If you’re leaving in the morning,” Sid said, resigned now, determination fading. “Then, I should make sure you have a good night, shouldn’t I? So that you have a reason to come back.”

“You’re already all reason to come back I’m need,” Zhenya said, and meant it. Sid pulled him down into a kiss anyway, though- and, he wasn’t complaining.

* * *

 

He snuck out when he was sure Sid was asleep, but, he didn’t go far; he didn’t have to. He was surprisingly calm as he walked up to the house across the street and knocked. This could all blow up terribly in a matter of seconds- but, he couldn’t consider that. As it never had been before, failure was not an option now. It was probably _less_ of an option, now, even.

The door opened, and a man Zhenya didn’t recognize opened the door, gun drawn at his waist and sneering. “You have nerve, Evgeni Vladimirovich,” he said coolly. It had been sometime since Zhenya had heard Russian, and it was strange that it was chilling, now.

“And information,” Zhenya said, tone just as even, devoid of emotion.

The man laughed. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “Your mark is still alive.”

“Dead men don’t talk,” Zhenya said, annoyed. “Though, since you look like you’ve spent a few years underground, maybe I’m wrong.”

The man’s sneer only grew, but he stepped aside, and gestured Zhenya in.

Zhenya slipped inside, and stood in the middle of an empty room. The house was a shell; he’d expected nothing less. “What have you learned, then?” the man asked. His gun was still drawn, and Zhenya’s eye twitched. He knew what that meant.

“I’ve learned,” he said, slow, drawing out each syllable as he paced a few steps. “That we have a shitty retirement plan.”

The man frowned, and Zhenya was glad he wasn’t bright enough to figure out the joke immediately, because it gave him the few seconds he needed to draw his own gun, and fire.

Zhenya didn’t shake or stumble as he stepped forward, kicking the other agent’s gun from his grasp, heartbeat even. He waited ten seconds, and then twenty. No sirens. No lights.

Good.

He walked through the house; there was a rug left on the second floor- undoubtedly meant to do to him what he was about to do to his former co-worker- and that was all Zhenya needed.

The only pause he allowed himself was once he was outside, already in Sid’s neighbor’s car, to look at what he was leaving behind. His chest felt even more hollow than it had before, but, there wasn’t anything cold to it. Sid was safe, for now- and, Zhenya could keep making sure of it.

He managed to get the car to start, and peeled out of the driveway as fast as he could manage.

* * *

 

Sid woke up to a cold spot in the bed next to him.

He frowned, and tried not to be too disappointed as he blinked himself awake. Zhenya had said he was leaving in the morning, and it was afternoon; he needed to get out of the habit of sleeping so late. Zhenya had spoiled him, interrupting his normal summer schedule.

He let himself mope as he got up, though. Sid had never really gotten to through his sad teenage romance phase, too busy with hockey, so he figured he deserved it now, as long as he could keep it consolidated to a few days. He had training to do, still.

He couldn’t help but break into a grin, though, when he saw a neatly folded note on the kitchen counter, in careful, blocky print he could only assume was Zhenya’s. He’d meant to be careful, really, but he almost ripped the note in half in his excitement.

 _Sid_ ,

_Didn’t want to wake you, but, gave you kiss before I left._

_Я люблю тебя (means see you next summer.)_

_Love,_

_Zhenya._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to an excess of noir for this, which is weird, because it isn't half as noir-y as I thought it would be. Anyway! I'm on tumblr @sidsknee! 
> 
> (Also "Я люблю тебя" means "I love you", not "See you next summer." Geno's just a dirty liar.)


End file.
